


Broken Chains

by spacehopper



Category: Star Wars Legends: Knights of the Old Republic
Genre: Breathplay, Consent Issues, M/M, Power Imbalance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-12-09 12:42:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11669349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacehopper/pseuds/spacehopper
Summary: Atton had always been lucky.





	Broken Chains

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Filigranka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Filigranka/gifts).



“You’re in danger,” she said, hand wrapped around his wrist, like she wanted to protect him, like he wouldn’t kill her the second he got the chance. His first thought was that it was a boast about her skill; his second that she was attempting to confuse him, to throw him off. But somehow, he knew it wasn’t either of those.

“What are you talking about?” he said, letting his guard down for just a moment. 

He knew, then, what her plan had been. She must have seen that the speeder burning behind them, because instead of explaining, she said, “I’m sorry, I’ll find you,” and ran while he was distracted by the sudden explosion. Through the smoke, he saw her jump onto her own intact speeder, and kept watching as her figure slowly faded in the distance. He waited for the sun to set, still trying to make sense of what she’d said. He was in danger? From what? Was she trying to warn him about the Jedi? The thought was baffling. He wasn’t anyone of any importance, no one the Jedi should want to target. Unless…

He dismissed the thought almost immediately. It was likely just another Jedi mind trick. They loved being ineffable. He pressed his comm, and quickly requested transportation. There would be consequence for failure. But at least with the Sith, he knew exactly what he was getting.  
*  
Atton hesitated just outside the threshold of what some might consider inevitable doom, but he preferred to think of as particularly high stakes pazaak. He was going in with a bad hand, but he’d pulled off more with less before. But it didn’t hurt to gauge his opponent beforehand, and a little eavesdropping could be exactly the advantage he needed.

“He’s been summoned?” one of the guards, a woman, said. 

“Summoned,” her companion, a man whose voice he vaguely recognized, replied. He snorted. “That’s one word for it.”

“What do you mean?” the woman said. She wasn’t familiar, which meant she was new. She’d learn soon enough. 

“You know how Darth Revan has that assassin droid? Like that, except not a droid, more of—” Here the man hesitated, as if struggling for the word. “—a pet.”

Atton imagined his first instinct had been a lot less flattering, but then you could never be too careful, as Atton was about to prove. He pressed his hand against the door panel, and strode in, cocky grin firmly in place.

“I’m here to see Lord Malak,” he said, expression not faltering in the slightest as he met the shocked gazes of the guards. They clearly expected him to cower, to show the fear outwardly most would in his situation. They probably thought him a fool, but a fool didn’t survive as long as he had, not in the position he was in. No, Atton knew there was plenty to fear beyond that door. But he’d learned young that letting that fear show was weakness, and that weakness was death. Better to appear strong, even when you weren’t. Emotion was a tool, a weapon, as dangerous as any blaster or blade he’d ever wielded, and over the years, he’d learned to use it well. 

He raised his eyebrows as the guards failed to respond. To his surprise, it was the woman who responded, moving out of the way to let him pass, while the man continued to stare at him, flabbergasted. She may be new, but Atton thought she just might make it. He walked forward, neither too slow or too fast, exuding confidence that he almost convinced himself he truly felt. Not that it mattered, in the end. All that mattered was who believed him. And ahead lay his most dangerous opponent, and a deadly game. 

But Atton had always been lucky.  
*  
Malak wasn’t there, but Atton hadn’t expected him to be. He knelt on the cold metal floor, like he knew would be expected, and he waited. But not idly. He knew Malak was nearby, and knew that he did this to discomfort whoever had displeased him, in hopes their thoughts would betray them. So Atton played pazaak. 

_Switch the face of the +1/-1 card, the totals are nine-ten. Switch the face of the +2/-2 card, the totals are eight-eleven._

“I’ve never understood your fascination with that game,” Malak said, after what Atton estimated to be an hour had passed. Atton had felt him approach, with the same well-honed instincts that had led to so many Jedi falling under his hands. Overconfidence against an unarmed opponent, and in the advantage the Force gave them. In many ways, Malak was the same.

But in so many others, he could not be more different. Atton kept carefully still has he felt Malak’s hand brush over his hair. It was gloved, which was a bad sign, but the game wasn’t lost yet. Atton let his head droop, a calculated act of submission, and focused on the feeling of the man stroking his hair, almost gentle. A tease, a deliberate lie they both saw through, but that was part of the game, too. 

“Why did you let her go?” he said. “She was of no significant power, no real ability. You are more than skilled enough for the task.” He lingered on skilled, as if caressing the word like he was caressing Atton’s hair. It was that skill that had brought him to Malak’s attention, in the early days of the Sith Empire. Unusually skilled, and unusually dedicated, his commander had said. Malak approved. “Tell me, are you going soft?” At this, his fingers tightened in Atton’s hair, and he couldn’t quite conceal how he tensed. Malak felt it, and tightened his grip further, jerking Atton’s head up to meet his eyes. “Did you feel sympathy for the Jedi? Did she tell you some sob story, to convince you she was not like the rest, that she was worthy to be spared?”

“No, my lord,” Atton said. _Play the +3 card, the total is twelve._

“Then why?” Malak said. His tone was almost light, but Atton could feel the anger barely contained underneath. Failure was not tolerated, particularly not in one such as Atton, so obviously favored. If he was weak, Malak was weak. He could give Malak an excuse, explain what the Jedi said, tell him about the explosion. But Malak wouldn't care about his excuses. He wasn't unreasonable, but the failure was Atton’s. He shouldn't have let the Jedi get the better of him. There was no question of punishment, only how severe the punishment would be. Malak had already reached twenty, but Atton had a feeling his luck would hold.

“There is no excuse, my lord,” he said. Draw a card. “I will hunt her down.” There was nothing false in his words, no lie for Malak to read.

Could Malak still smile, Atton thought he would. 

“Good,” he said. “You will do that soon. But first, there is the matter of your punishment. I will see to it personally.”

“Of course, my lord.” 

Atton had expected nothing less. Sometimes, a round had to be sacrificed to win the game.

*  
Hours later found Atton kneeling, hands bound, on the floor of the private interrogation room in Malak’s quarters. Malak had not done anything yet beyond this, and instead sat in front of Atton, meditating. As different as the Sith claimed to be, they sure were fond of their meditation. But Atton had meditation of his own. He’d left the pazaak, wary of irritating Malak further, and instead focused on his surroundings. Malak didn’t generally do any of the torturing himself, preferring to leave it to people like Atton. But there were always special cases. Jedi too powerful, or too important, to leave in less experienced hands. Atton hadn't experienced the machines first hand, but then, he was no Jedi.

“Atton,” Malak said. Atton lifted his head as if pulled by a leash at the sound of his name, which despite their association, Malak rarely used. He licked his suddenly dry lips.

“Yes, my lord?” To anyone else, Atton may have tossed off a barb, sarcasm in the face of authority. But not here. Not now.

“Do you enjoy your work?” Malak asked. His tone was idle, as if it were mere curiosity. As if Atton’s work were something mundane, something ordinary. He felt his lips twitch involuntary. 

“I do, my lord.” 

Malak rose, walking towards Atton, and placing a finger under his chin to lift his head. Atton met his eyes. Few would dare to do so. The fact he did, when his commander presented him, was how Malak had noticed him, a soldier among many. A gifted pilot, but otherwise not worthy of regard. Malak stepped back, his fingers dropping away from Atton’s face, but he could still feel their touch lingering. He watched as Malak’s hand tightened on air, and felt a corresponding tightening on his throat. 

As the grip tightened, fear was the first thing he felt. Fear that this time, he’d gambled wrong. That this time Malak would go too far, hold it too long. Atton certainly wouldn’t be the first. And who was he, really? Pet, they’d called him, and he couldn’t really dispute that. No one would grieve if Malak finally put him down. 

He was wheezing now, gasping against the grip, everything too much and too little at once, pain edging into a twisted pleasure. Had Malak been holding him with his hand, his real hand, Atton might have tried to pull away. To escape his grip. It was only natural, the instinct to fight, to survive. But the Force wasn’t something that could be fought. It was insidious, inescapable, used to control and manipulate. The Jedi claimed to use it for good, but it was a lie, like everything they said. As Atton’s vision blackened, the fear began to recede. He met Malak’s eyes again. If he would die, then let Malak feel his hatred, for the Jedi, for the Force, for all who wielded it. He wouldn’t have the satisfaction of his fear. 

And then Malak’s hand was on his throat, his true hand, and Atton found himself gasping for air as he felt the grip of the Force leave him, the hand that replaced it oddly gentle for a moment until Malak hauled him to his feet by the throat. His strength was terrifying, augmented, Atton knew, by the Force. Atton stood there in front of him, still gasping, and at that moment, hated Malak more than he’d hated anyone in his life. 

Then his hand gentled again, stroking down the sensitive skin, skin Atton knew would bruise, marking him. 

“Good,” Malak said. He stepped closer, his hand moving up to stroke Atton’s hair, the other holding his waist in a mockery of an embrace. “Remember how you feel now, when you meet her again. Remember that for all they pretend, this is what the Jedi are.” The hand on his waist moved to undo his bindings. “You are free to go. You can have a moment of peace before your next mission.” 

Malak meant it, Atton knew. He could leave now, with no consequences. But it was the same choice he faced against a skilled opponent, who mockingly asked if he wanted to fold. To bow out. To give up.

“Peace is a lie.” The words came to his lips unbidden. He knew he’d heard them, somewhere, sometime, but he couldn’t remember, almost as if the memory had been taken from him. Had it been the Jedi, he wondered? Had that been how she’d so easily fled him, manipulated him?

“There is only passion,” Malak replied. His grip tightened on Atton’s waist, and he felt twin threads of excitement and dread. Like he’d won the round, but that somehow, it had doomed him all the same. But he didn’t resist as Malak, gentle now, guided him to his bedroom. 

He was shaking, he realized. A normal response to a near death experience, but that wasn’t it. He knew it wasn’t. He struggled with the thought as Malak pressed him onto the bed, as his clothes were stripped away. He found he couldn’t meet Malak’s eyes anymore. He closed his eyes, focusing on the feeling of Malak’s hands on his oversensitive body. There was something, something he needed to remember. 

The first time he’d come to Malak like this, it had been out of loyalty. Malak and Revan had saved them. Saved him. They had used their power in a way the Jedi refused. Atton had loved him for it.

But he’d never had any illusions either. He let out a startled gasp as Malak dragged him from the bed, forcing him to his knees again, hand not on his head but his throat. Atton knew what he wanted, knew the reminder was intentional. And he hated him, and hated him all the more because he knew that hatred was Malak's intent. And he knew that this was why he’d stayed.

He took Malak in his mouth, and felt, for the first time, that he had done something to undermine his control. Because Malak, he knew, was not immune to this, whatever this was. The strength that came from power, the power he had over Atton, and the power, ever so slight, that Atton had in this moment. His fingers tightened once again on Atton’s throat as he came, but Atton no longer minded. Because it wasn’t the Force, and Malak wasn’t, for once, entirely in control.

To Atton’s surprise, Malak knelt beside him. _Victory_ , Atton felt, a whisper in his mind, a thought his own and not his own. He shook his head to clear it, then gasped as Malak’s hand, still gloved, wrapped around him. It wasn’t that Malak never reciprocated. But not like this. His hand was gentle, too gentle, but Atton came all the same. He leaned forward, involuntary, gasping against Malak’s neck.

“You will bring me the Jedi,” Malak said, breath ghosting against the shell of his ear, lingering over the words as if giving them time to worm into Atton’s mind. “Broken.”

*  
He left, scarf tied around his neck to conceal the bruises. The guards seemed surprised to see him, but Atton knew now he’d never been in danger. You didn’t damage a fine sword, after all, even if it had failed in battle. Malak believed in honing the edge, and Atton wouldn't fail. Not again.

And yet the words of the Jedi echoed still.

_You’re in danger._

Sometimes weapons broke in the forging. He remembered Malak telling him of his first attempt at a lightsaber, about how when he’d the pieces together, the lens had cracked.

He pushed the thought away. 

_Draw the +4 card, the total is twenty-one._


End file.
